The Price of Thrills

Iron Fist

The morning light filtering through heavy curtains did nothing to dispel the oppressive atmosphere of the Conti mansion. I lay in bed, staring at the ornate ceiling, feeling like a stranger in my own skin. The events of the past few days swirled in my mind, a chaotic mess of violence, revelations, and shattered illusions.

A sharp knock on the door jolted me from my thoughts. Before I could respond, the door swung open, revealing a woman I hadn't met yet. She was older, probably in her sixties, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her eyes, dark and piercing, reminded me uncomfortably of Don Vittorio.

"Get up," she said, her voice clipped and accented. "Breakfast is in twenty minutes. Don't be late."

With that, she turned and left, not bothering to close the door behind her. I sat up slowly, my body aching from tension and fear. Who was she? Enzo's mother? Some kind of housekeeper?

I dragged myself out of bed, rifling through the suitcase Enzo had packed for me. My fingers brushed against the soft fabric of my favorite dress, and for a moment, I was back in Houston, getting ready for a night out with Enzo. The memory brought a lump to my throat, which I swallowed down hard. That life was gone. I couldn't afford to dwell on it now.

I settled on a simple blouse and skirt, hoping it would be appropriate for whatever awaited me downstairs. As I dressed, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. The woman staring back at me looked tired, scared, and utterly out of place. I straightened my shoulders, lifting my chin defiantly. I might be in over my head, but I'd be damned if I'd let these people see me break.

The dining room was as opulent as the rest of the house, all polished wood and gleaming silver. Don Vittorio sat at the head of the table, with Enzo to his right. The woman who'd woken me sat on Don Vittorio's left, her posture rigid and uninviting. Marco and Luca were there too, along with a younger woman I didn't recognize.

All conversation stopped as I entered the room. I felt their eyes on me, assessing, judging. Don Vittorio's lip curled slightly in distaste, while Enzo's face remained impassive, not even bothering to look at me.

"Sit," Don Vittorio commanded, gesturing to an empty chair next to Enzo.

I complied, feeling like I was walking to the gallows rather than to breakfast. As soon as I sat down, servants appeared, silently filling plates and glasses.

"Sleep well?" the older woman asked, her tone making it clear she couldn't care less about my answer.

"Yes, thank you," I lied, my voice sounding small even to my own ears. I cleared my throat, trying again. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've been properly introduced."

The woman's eyebrow arched slightly. "Serafina Conti. Enzo's mother."

I nodded, attempting a smile. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Conti."

"I'm sure it is," Serafina replied dryly, turning her attention back to her plate.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table, broken only by the clink of silverware against china. I picked at my food, my appetite nonexistent under the weight of their collective scrutiny.

"So," Don Vittorio said suddenly, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "Have you given any thought to names for the baby?"

I froze, my fork halfway to my mouth. Beside me, I felt Enzo stiffen.

"I... we haven't really discussed it yet," I stammered, glancing at Enzo for help. He remained silent, his jaw clenched tight.

Don Vittorio's smile was cold. "Well, perhaps it's time you did. After all, this child will be a Conti, regardless of its... parentage."